I don’t know it I don’t know it yet
not in vertical,my daily position
anyway I’m singing the continuous escapes
the candid bones,my sleepy touch
actually I don’t know my obsessions
they are sincere they are made of glass
so I’m looking for the survivors
one hundred miles after the strangers
you see – I have a touchdown existence
and the houses are welcoming
half-closed they watch some late conversations
the clearest one embraces a dirty white
so you dreamt me,last night
you dreamt the shore we stood on
the little distance recalled back
skin sliding no word no shape changing
it was marvellous wasn’t it
it was my fault yes it is
so close so close so wet and then
sliding in another place together
we got into a tangle
steam and stone
so last night you dreamt me
yes it was,you say
you just woke up confused
sadly no me close to you
on sunday morning warm pillow
that’s why your misty clear voice
suddenly phoned me all the story
carring on it coming round it
breathless mad simple bite
we are not able to die of hunger
because it’s about
a romance and telegraph poles
the water its mass and the blanks between
two black lines unpside-down my eyes
both the lips of mine circled by gloss
so perfect for you to kiss them
